


Memories of Persuasion

by VSSAKJ



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: Ants, Community: bloodyvalentine, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 01:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VSSAKJ/pseuds/VSSAKJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years later and he still remembers their endless crawling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories of Persuasion

**Author's Note:**

> Significant spoilers for _Naamah's Blessing_. Conversely, knowledge of canon not particularly required. Actual canon-possible ant porn? More likely than you think. Written for the prompt "Any: insect kink, ants".

He starts to waking and clutches at chill, sweat-soaked silk sheets. For a moment, he only breathes heavily, eyes closed, chin touched to one shoulder. He feels himself quivering, body alight with sensations he recalls far too well for the years stretched between now and when he last felt them, and wills his roiling stomach to ease. Then he runs his fingers lightly over the sumptuous bed and reminds himself, _'This is Terre D'Ange,'_ and breathes deeply of the not-jungle scented room and recalls, _'This is not Terra Nova,'_ and knots his hands together and grits his teeth and remembers, _'Raphael de Mereliot is dead.'_

“My lord Shahrizai?”

He nearly yelps surprise. Damn that boy, and damn his nerves. “I've told you before to call me Balthasar, Léon.”

“My lord Balthasar.” He hurries to correct himself, still hovering anxiously in the doorway, “Are you well, sir? I heard—”

“I'm fine. Please go.”

He watches Léon linger and imagines the debate warring in his servant's mind. Would that he had the patience to be less sharp, but it is deep into the night, and he knows he will sleep no more. Were he a crueler man, he might terrify the boy with the memories that clot his nights and relish the fear they inspire, but—and he exhales a long breath he had not known he was holding as Léon vanishes into the hall once more—he thinks there few who want to leave behind Terra Nova so much as he does...

 

He inhales the heady, pungent scent of the rich earth turning under his labours, and remembers when he thought dying in the jungle was the worst that could happen to him on this damned journey. That had been before they'd discovered Raphael de Mereliot styling himself as a god among these people; that had been before they'd known Prince Thierry de la Courcel was still alive. How could one statement so foul stand next to one so triumphant and be equally true?

He supposes, and he bows his head to work as another column of Raphael's ants marches past them, he should be grateful that even one of their number was spared this shameful work, and grateful again that the one was Moirin, and thrice grateful that she will be doing all she can to work against Raphael's insanity. With her special skills, he admits she is better equipped than most of them, and accepts that he can do no more now than lend his sunburnt shoulders to the constant harvest. He'd rather the ants devour grain than flesh any day, and holds no illusions as to who Raphael would dispose of given the barest of excuses.

So he is surprised—and distressed—when, after a week of back-breaking effort, he is plucked from the fields and escorted to Raphael's throne room. The guards who escort him speak no language he does, and he is forced to contend with the clicking of thousands of pincers as his only conversation. His mouth quirks as he considers amusing himself with mindless, one-sided chatter, but he fears the madness that path may lead to. He pretends he does not fear his captors reporting his words to Raphael.

He is escorted into Raphael's presence and abandoned. The ants heave around him like a tide, and he feels nervous tension creep into the small of his back.

Raphael's lips twist into a strange, hollow expression. He looks like he might be amused if he could remember how it felt. “Shahrizai.” He pops some leaves into his mouth and chews. “You've found the hospitality acceptable, I presume?”

Balthasar frowns, but keeps his back straight. “If you've brought me here only to gloat I'd just as soon return to the fields and keep your monsters fed.”

“That's hardly your choice, is it?” Raphael laughs now, and dips his hand into the basket of leaves once more. There, he pauses, and ants prowl up and down his arm as he gazes into the distance beyond Balthasar's shoulder. “I wonder if you're interested in joining me, Shahrizai.”

Now Balthasar coughs harsh laughter. He lifts one hand, dismissive and irreverent, and drawls, “That's hardly my choice, as you might say.”

Raphael's expression darkens, and he rises to descend from his throne. Balthasar watches ants part where his feet fall and supresses a shiver. Raphael's words are a low growl, “Be careful, Shahrizai, or you may find yourself unmanned.”

He does not consider it—it's in his nature to be insolent, and he speaks with casual wickedness, “The same as Moirin unmanned you when she proved a better lover to Jehanne than you?”

_“You will not speak her name!”_ The ants surge forward around him in reaction to Raphael's roar of fury, and Balthasar cringes as they crawl over his bare feet. He doesn't want to give Raphael the satisfaction of seeing him flinch, but Raphael thrusts an accusatory finger in his direction, and the ants stream up his legs. “ _You_ have no right to the likes of _her_. Even speaking her name is too good for you! I should kill you!”

“Death is a far cry from joining you, as you invited moments ago.” He feels his hands start to shake, and presses them to his thighs in an attempt to keep his discomfort from Raphael's knowledge. The man is mad, that much is clear. And here he is, taunting madness, and paying for it as the ants continue their way up his body, clicking madly.

“No, no... Not yet.” Raphael croons towards the ants, chewing a new handful of leaves with vehemence before his eyes focus in on Balthasar again. His breathing is heavy, like he's run for days. “They'd like to devour you, Shahrizai. They tell me so. You might do better than to anger me, or I might give them permission. They'll start between your legs, since I know what fondness you have for that piece of yours.”

Now he feels the danger that was always threatening, and Balthasar shudders as the ants swarm his phallus, covered only by a loose twist of cloth. He says nothing, not trusting his voice to hold to his convinction, and glares at Raphael with all the hatred he can muster. There is plenty of it, and it grows all the more as he thinks of the treachery Prince Thierry faced at the hands of this madman.

Raphael laughs, though, and still the ants rise higher, marching across his bare chest and over his shoulders and into his curly, dark hair. He bites his lip as his shuddering brings him to his knees, and squeezes his eyes shut as the parade makes its way across his face. He feels them on his eyelids, he feels them on his mouth, he feels them on his ears; he feels them on his chest, scoring his skin with their pincers and taking chunks of flesh as they go. He feels them in all the places only his lovers have touched, and his stomach clenches in protest as they pick towards his eyes.

Shame burns on his cheeks as he finally snaps, voice strained high and tight, “By Blessed Elua man, _call them off_!” He has no reason to speak the begging words: he can hear them in his tone.

Just as quickly as they came, the ants disperse, and Balthasar finds himself limp on the ground, quivering into a desperate defensive ball. His mouth is dry but his flesh is moist with sweat, and he swears they're still on him, still crawling and nipping and defiling him, and he shakes so hard the ground seems to batter against him. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, desperate to staunch the flow of furious tears and keep his pathetic mumbling to himself, but Raphael spares no time in waltzing across the room to toe a sandaled foot beneath his cheek.

“You see, Shahrizai? I own all of you, every single one. If you had any illusions otherwise, you know different now, don't you? Moirin can't help you. I will have my way, and none of you can stop me.” When Balthasar gives him no response, Raphael chuckles darkly, and kicks him in the middle. “You'll go back to the fields and tell them what's happened here, Shahrizai. They'll all know, then. You fools. You idiots. I'm so glad you came.”

He turns his back and Balthasar hears him leave the room. He hears, too, the sound of clicking, swears he can feel the ants returning to him, and he scrambles to stand, eyes darting to identify the damn things and keep away from them. The room is empty: he is alone. Balthasar backs slowly towards the doors he entered through, and flees.

 

The moon is still high, but the sky is just starting to lighten, and he thinks the ends of his fingers cold enough now that he should resume his bedroom. Still he lingers on the balcony, mouth far too dry and thoughts lost to distant shores. He hadn't told any of them about that experience, of course. When they'd asked after the marks on his body, he'd only said that Raphael had attempted to persuade him to turn traitor, the same way he'd manipulated Moirin into vowing allegiance to him. They'd all looked at him with horror until he shrugged and said he'd told Raphael he'd rather die, which he had quite near intimate experience with thanks very much, and Raphael had decided he wanted to play with him a bit longer.

_“But,”_ Balthasar remembers his words exactly, _“Don't be surprised if you wake one morning and find me dead.”_

He smiles weakly into the distance, and wonders when his careless words became so very true.


End file.
